Stand in the Rain

She was running. Dashing through the foliage of autumn littering the woods behind her house, sloshing through thick mud puddles, the spongy, damp grass squishing beneath her worn black skater shoes, ducking and pushing past rain-kissed branches and bushes.
No matter how hard the rain was pounding down on her thick, wavy, honey blonde hair; no matter how far away she was from that run-down cottage she was forced to call home; she still heard that ugly voice ringing lucidly across the woods, “YOU HEAR ME? GET THE HELL OUT OF MY SIGHT!”
She wanted to break down crying or run back to him screaming in his face, but she didn’t have the courage to do either. Her heat pounding, her whole body soaked to the core, she kept running and running until she could no longer hear the voice.
She finally found a big oak tree to somewhat shield her from the rain. She ran a hand through her tangled tresses, trying to catch her breath. After her heart finally stopped thumping, she laid her mom’s battered, old guitar in her lap. She took her favorite pick out of her pocket and strummed, trying helplessly to calm her dizzy, jumbled head. She tried to sing but her voice came out ragged and hoarse.
After a few minutes of endless strumming, she set down the guitar and examined the damage her dad had left her this time. She ran her hand along her arm; bruised and spattered with blood and scars randomly…she drew back, wincing in pain. Her back and shoulders ached terribly and from the waist down she was numb and frozen from being out in the rain so long.
It was then that she started to break down, the bitter taste of salty tears stung her tongue while she sobbed, gasping hopelessly for air.
She pulled the backpack beside her on her lap, looking through the contents inside. A bag of cheese puffs, a water bottle, a few extra guitar picks, her leather-bound journal, a picture of her mother, and a frayed black sweatshirt which she pulled delicately around her sore shoulders. This is what was usually in this backpack, or as she liked to call it, Runaway. It was the backpack that held her most basic needs for a few days until she dared to go back inside the dangerous cottage until her father’s next stint of anger.
She remembered the days when she actually loved her father. He used to read her stories at bedtime and sometimes he would stop at the candy shop on the way home from work and get her a little treat. That person is now gone.
After Rose’s mother died when she was eight, her father had taken up drinking full-time. He now abused her. He was always losing his job, and when he was in between jobs, he was always at his angriest, like now.
After Rose’s mother died, her whole life had fallen apart. She actually used to be quite popular at school. After the car accident, she moped around, feeling sorry for herself, her circle of friends slowly diminishing in front of her very eyes. The happy little garden out in front of the cottage slowly died out after she tried time after time to preserve it. Her life spiraled down and down and was only getting worse with ever passing day.
Nightfall softly fell upon her, and she was overcome with fatigue. Her eyes closed at long last and blackness surrounded her. She was too exhausted to care about the ugly, metallic taste of tears and blood staining her tongue as she slowly settled into a state of sleepiness, falling asleep to the constant thrum of the rain plummeting around her.